


Silence

by eoan



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Classical Music, F/F, Inspired by Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your lie in April
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoan/pseuds/eoan
Summary: A last minute call drags Blake to the Windy City to accompany a famous, and slightly infamous, cellist in her latest performance. Though she expected a challenge when she boarded her flight she was not at all prepared for what awaited her. Years of training and habit are upended in a week by the demanding soloist, all culminating in a night that neither the performers themselves nor the audience will ever forget.
Relationships: Blake Belladonna/Yang Xiao Long
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	Silence

“This silence belongs to us.”

Blake stared in confusion at the soloist. The statement had been so unexpected that it hit her like a Zen koan, momentarily leaving her mind completely blank. Before the rush of returning words could sort itself into a question the woman gave her a cocky wink and strutted out from behind the curtain while a stagehand shooed Blake after her. As always, the walk across the empty stage left her feeling terribly exposed, lit from above to make her easily visible to the anonymous crowd bathed in shadows that were completely impenetrable beyond the glare of the spotlights. No matter how many times she completed that exact same trip it always left her feeling as though she were being put on a pedestal for judgment and summary execution. In this case, she was moderately comforted by the thought that surely no one could even see her; blinded as they no doubt were by the woman they had all come to see, clad in her extravagantly shimmering golden gown. Despite her suit being well-made and neatly tailored, Blake felt shabby by comparison, but given her role in the evening’s proceedings fading into the background seemed appropriate. She wasn’t the reason the symphony hall in which they stood was packed, she was merely a necessary adornment to the main event.

As they crossed the gap to their instruments a small smattering of applause momentarily broke the silence on which Blake was still meditating, trying to understand the odd claim as well as the force with which it had struck her. As the audience returned their hands to their respective laps the room once more sank into expectant quiet. Blake quickly found her seat at the piano, adjusting sheet music she had no need for but used out of habit, and tried to settle herself to no avail. She simply couldn’t stop running that one sentence, five little words, on a loop. Agonizing over every syllable.

This silence belongs to us.

This silence.

Belongs to us?

She assumed it was just her nerves getting the better of her; she had been a last-minute substitute for the fiery soloist, now adjusting her own chair and picking up her cello. Her manager had called Blake a little over a week before the performance, having gotten her number from a friend of a friend, as things often went in the music business. Apparently the latest accompanist had quit when she could no longer tolerate the capricious nature of the cellist who was well-known, and to her fans well-loved, for her tendency to take wide artistic license with compositions and do so with little or no notice to those who played with her. Though many thought it an honor and a challenge at first to play with such a singular talent they all seemed to become disenchanted eventually. Once they reached that point they were either dismissed or quit outright, though sometimes booking conflicts would appear as if by magic and they would simply drift away.

Blake had been well aware of all of this history when she received the call, but it had been months since her last job, not including studio work, and she wasn’t in a position to be choosy. Money aside, she needed the exposure to ensure she didn’t fall off of call lists such as the one that had landed her on a redeye from her current home base in LA out to Chicago, a place she had never been terribly eager to visit, least of all in the depths of its infamously cold winter. Even though a driver had been sent to whisk her away from the airport into the heart of the city she had almost frozen during the short walk from the terminal to the parking garage, her heaviest jacket proving about as useful as tissue paper against the unforgivingly frigid wind. Given the early hour on a Saturday morning, there were few cars on the road and after a few quiet minutes with only the sound of the heat blowing at full power and tires crunching on the occasional patch of ice to occupy her thoughts the high-rises of downtown came into view. As with the other times she had found her way to the Windy City, Blake was struck by how surprisingly ornate and interesting the architecture was. Chicago didn’t have a reputation for being a particularly beautiful city, and yet it had a coherence and variety not found in many other locales in the US. Despite her aversion to the inhumane cold, she found herself enjoying the way the morning sun glinted off the lightly frosted towers lining the river and lake.

Along with a substantial paycheck Blake was pleased to find that the booking agency had been generous with her accommodations as well, situating her in a lovely hotel with a room overlooking the park and its famous silver bean (or whatever it was really called), just a couple blocks from the venue. A scant few minutes was all she allowed herself to enjoy the view before she forced herself to lay down for a nap. The flight had not been particularly restful and she was due in the rehearsal hall in a few hours; given how little time they had before the recital they would no doubt be pulling long hours, so she needed to be as rested as possible. The driver had left her with a folder that included the itinerary as well as the score to Beethoven’s Cello Sonata No. 2 in G Minor. Someone else may have spent their time reviewing the music, taking notes, and preparing themselves, but Blake was already several steps ahead. As soon as the call had come through she had downloaded the score and before the plane had landed on the snowy runway she had it memorized in its entirety. All she needed was rest to keep her mind clear and she could play the music perfectly as many times as needed.

That was her talent: she could blend seamlessly with any performer, never stealing the spotlight or interfering. She considered the highest praise to be when those she worked with admitted they almost forgot she was there, or that she wasn’t a recording. Her playing was so precise that she was often likened to a machine. No one knew how many hours she had spent perfecting that talent, playing until her hands cramped and her fingers bled, anything to please the man she had worked with for so many years. But there was no time for reminiscing. She needed sleep to keep her mind sharp and let the notes sink into her muscles, into her very bones.

A cough from the audience snapped her back to the present, and as she looked up she was greeted by an arched eyebrow and a smirk thrown over the bare shoulder of her latest, to be frank, challenge. Realizing what was being asked of her Blake grimaced in embarrassment and produced a long A for one final tune. Breaking the silence.

This Silence. Belongs.

To us.

Their first meeting had been far from what Blake had expected. Based on everything she had heard she expected a diva, aloof and condescending, followed everywhere by an assistant ready to attend to her every need. What she found upon knocking on the door to the rehearsal room could not have been further from that image.

“Hi, I’m Yang!” said a tall blonde in a rumpled button-down and torn jeans, holding out her hand jovially.

Blake took the large hand uncertainly, worried she was in the wrong place until she noted the callouses where the bow sat in her strong but graceful fingers. She had no doubt the other hand, still placed casually in her hip pocket, bore even more from the strings. “Uh, hi. I’m…” she began, struggling to get her bearings.

“Blake, I hope,” the woman said conspiratorially, laughing at her own joke and waving her over to the waiting piano.

“Uh, yeah,” she responded hesitantly, still trying to mesh her expectations with the reality she had been greeted with.

“Sorry for dragging you out here on such short notice, especially in the middle of winter,” Yang said cheerily as Blake set her things down. 

“Not at all, happy I could help,” came the mumbled reply.

“Do you need anything? Water? Something else to drink? Food?” Yang asked sincerely.

Blake looked around in confusion but saw no one who might fulfill such a request. “I uh…no, I’m ok. Thanks.”

But her hostess wasn’t having it. “You sure? You just flew. Flying always dries me out. I’m just going to grab you a water.”

As the woman bustled into another room Blake stared after her. Where was the willful monster of a performer who kept chasing off accompanists? This woman seemed so reasonable, friendly even. Add to that the notoriety of playing with a world-class musician and this seemed like a pretty cushy gig. A pianist could do worse; Blake certainly had. As she accepted the bottle with thanks and settled in at the keyboard to get acquainted with it she started to feel uncharacteristically optimistic. If this job went well maybe she could take on the role of her primary accompanist and have steady work for a while. It might get distracting at times trying to focus while looking at such a stunningly beautiful woman, but Blake was a professional, and she could manage to keep her jaw (and pants) off the floor. Besides, she had long since sworn off mixing business with pleasure. Still, as they got settled she was already thinking about how fun it might be to follow her on world tours and play in front of packed houses. Perhaps she was getting ahead of herself, but for once she allowed herself to get carried away hoping that something good had come her way.

Then they started playing.

It’s not that Yang wasn’t talented. She was probably the most gifted musician Blake had ever played with, and that was saying a lot. But her style was so unpredictable, so violently mercurial that it was all Blake could do not to fall off her bench while she tried to hold on to the flow of the music. Several times she expected them to stop and redo a botched section, but every time the cellist plowed on, hardly seeming to acknowledge the discord between them at all beyond the slightest tightening of her jaw. Blake saw all of her newly formed plans crumbling before her eyes, and she shrank further and further in on herself as she allowed herself to be dragged along to the conclusion, if one could even call it that, of the piece. As the final grating notes sank into the walls around them she looked down at her hands, shaking so violently that she had to pull them away from the keys lest they add even more dissonance to the air.

A deep sigh and the gentle clamor of an instrument being laid on its side hit Blake like a knife in the chest. That was it, she had blown it. No doubt she would be on a plane back to sunny California in the morning while a more suitable replacement was found. The blow to her confidence was immediate and total. Blake had never claimed to be the greatest musician out there, but she knew herself to be an excellent accompanist. After her long stint with the most demanding violinist, one could ever hope to play for she had worked with a long list of truly exceptional performers, all of whom she found she could match and support perfectly given just a few rehearsals. What had just transpired had been the single worst performance she had been part of or even witnessed in her entire career. Still unable to look up as the clomp of boots approached her bench she began shuffling the pages of the score and readying herself to pack her things. The only redemption from her humiliation lay in escape and she intended to carry that out as quickly and painlessly as humanly possible. She stopped short when a hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. Looking up she saw, of all things, a smile on the woman’s face.

“Well, that was a thing,” Yang said dryly, patting her once before turning toward the door. “Come on, I need a drink.”

“No, I shouldn’t…I should just go,” Blake stammered, her face turning crimson at the thought of being handled with kid gloves after such a disastrous showing.

“Blake, relax. I’m not firing you,” Yang said. “But I don’t think we’re going to fix this in here. Come with me.”

What choice did she have? Running occurred to her, and she refused to remove that from the list of possibilities entirely, but she found herself intrigued by the offer. “Ok, yeah,” she said slowly.

Again a cough, again the cocked eyebrow. Blake came into herself immediately this time and raised her hands to the keyboard, indicating that she was ready to begin. Ready to claim the silence that was apparently theirs already. With a nod of Yang’s head, the silence was no more, and instead, the air was filled with life and motion, two people pouring themselves into it and each other. It wasn’t quite right, and it certainly wasn’t a slavish recreation of what the composer had intended, but there was a life to it, a certain spark.

Belongs to us. Belongs?

A spark just like that first evening at the hole in the wall joint that Yang apparently frequented, based on the reception they were given by the big man behind the bar. After a shouted greeting and a fist bump with the surprisingly at-home Yang, he passed them two beers that they took over to an empty table in the corner.

“Did we order these?” Blake asked as she eyed the dark liquid suspiciously.

“Trust me, this is the only thing worth drinking here,” Yang said with a laugh as she took a long pull from her mug. “So, Blake. Tell me about yourself.”

“I…myself?” Blake said, off-balance again and trying to accept that was likely to be the state of affairs for her entire stay in Chicago.

“Yup,” Yang said, refusing to clarify as she waited patiently.

Blake was mystified, they had a performance coming up in a matter of days, she apparently wasn’t being fired, and they had just committed some serious crimes against Beethoven as well as music in its entirety. Yet here they were, definitely not rehearsing. Her mind raced as she hunted for the right answer to the question. “Well…I, uh, grew up in Miami…” she started, faltering as she grasped for some narrative. “I studied at Juilliard-“

“Ok, I’m going to stop you before you recite your entire resume, which I have no doubt is very impressive,” Yang said, firm but affable. “In fact I know it is since I researched you before approving you as a candidate. I’m not interested in any of that, I want to know about you. Who are you? What gets you out of bed in the morning? What does music mean to you, really?”

The questions came across as practiced but genuine, and Blake felt like she was simultaneously in a job interview and out on a first date. Regardless of which it actually was, she was sure it was not going well. “I…” Blake began, her shoulders slumping as she accepted she couldn’t bluff her way out of the corner she was in. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you want from me.”

Yang looked taken aback at this and sat back in her chair as she chewed it over. “Ok, I guess we can start with that,” she said, taking another drink and looking at Blake with an inscrutable expression. “Why do you think you’re here?”

“To accompany you,” Blake responded, finally sure of something and startled when she saw Yang shaking her head in response.

“No, that’s not why you’re here.”

“I…what?” she asked, completely baffled.

“Blake, if all I wanted was some background music, I’d have someone play a recording over the PA, or get a player piano for that live music feel. But that’s not what I want. I want a living, breathing, preferably feeling person on stage to make music with me,” Yang said, leaning in and drawing Blake in with the force of her conviction so that they sat nearly head to head. “You are not my employee, or my prop, you are a partner, a co-conspirator, a collaborator in the creation of something unique and, hopefully, beautiful. What happened before? I kind of expected it. I’ve heard recordings of your performances, many of them. By happenstance, I’ve even been in the audience of a couple. You’re the perfect accompanist. You play exactly what the score calls for, nothing more and nothing less save for tiny adjustments to account for the performer you’re supporting. It’s impressive, truly it is. Your talent cannot be ignored, which is a big reason I brought you out here,” she waved Blake off as she attempted to demure, not interested in being interrupted by false modesty. “We both know how good you are, so let’s not waste each other’s time denying it. That said, being perfectly faithful to the music isn’t exactly my style, which I think you know but now have experienced first hand.”

“I had heard that you take…liberties in your performances.” Blake said, trying to remain tactful.

Yang threw her head back and laughed at that, indulging her mirth for several seconds before wiping her eyes and waving for the barkeep to bring her another beer. “That is the most diplomatic way anyone has ever said that to me, but I’d appreciate it if you dialed back the bullshit by several notches. I don’t want you to kiss my ass, I’d really like you to just be as honest with me as I’m going to be with you. Starting with this: I intentionally threw you off tonight.”

“Your performance did seem a little wild, even by your normal standards,” Blake admitted, aiming for the sweet spot between direct and overstepping.

Yang nodded in approval, “It was, though not entirely by design. I let my current mood influence my playing, and adding the excitement of meeting a beautiful woman into the mix may have made me a bit over-exuberant. But that’s the point, I was trying to communicate through the music, and it felt a bit like I was talking to a brick wall.”

“So you were trying to hit on me with your playing?” Blake asked incredulously.

“Maybe,” Yang shot back with a wink.

“Are you saying I should have flirted back?”

Before she finished Yang was already shaking her head. “Only if you wanted to, that’s the point of all this. I don’t want you to blindly follow me. No one wants to listen to me drag some sad sop around by the nose, that’s dull. How amazing would it be to hear someone acknowledge overtures as obvious as mine and calmly snub them? That dynamic could have made for a fascinating performance!” she said, sloshing her beer very nearly out of her mug as she gesticulated wildly.

“I guess…” Blake acknowledged, trying to imagine what that would sound like. “But how would I even prepare for something like that?”

“What do you think we’re doing right now?”

In the actual right now, they were working their way laboriously through the introduction. Yang’s cryptic statement seemed to be informing her playing, as she was moving through some odd internal space that Blake couldn’t fathom. Her note-perfect memory allowed her to muddle her way through, but to anyone with a good ear or knowledge of the piece, it would be obvious how poor a job she was doing of keeping up. Yang certainly knew, as even without a clear view of her face the slight tension of her jaw stood out, and her notes began to take on a harsher tone.

Just like in rehearsal. Each one often started light and fun but quickly became anything but. Though Yang never said a single harsh word, every time they played it felt to Blake like she was going several rounds with a merciless heavyweight, each note landing like a physical blow as she tried and failed to counter or parry. Each session ended with her entirely on the defensive, doing everything she could just to hang on until the bell and at its sounding slumping back to her corner, defeated. After every rehearsal she slunk back to her fancy hotel and sank into her outrageously comfortable mattress before crying herself into a dreamless sleep only to wake up the next morning and start again, greeted as always by kind words and a glowing smile. How could someone so wonderful and gentle leave her feeling so depleted, so demoralized? It wasn’t the same as with Adam, but it had familiar elements.

He had found her in her first week at Juilliard, tall and lean and pretty and already in the running to be the most talented violinist of his generation. His attention had felt like a spell, and suddenly Blake didn’t care about her initial dream of playing solo recitals anymore; all of her time went into perfecting her accompaniment of Adam’s genius. Their love affair was assumed by most long before it happened, but that was almost beside the point. It was just another way he had taken control, molding her into the perfect supporting player both on and off stage. She dropped her many stylistic signatures, caving as he raged whenever she threw him off with a slight flourish or embellishment. It happened so gradually she couldn’t even point to the moment when music stopped being a living, breathing thing for her. It pained her somewhat that it wasn’t the bruises she had to cover up or excuses she made to her dwindling group of friends when she couldn’t join them for fear of his anger and jealousy that made her leave, it was her hatred for what he had done to her precious music. For a time she had felt like the moon to his sun, reflecting his light and casting illumination of her own in the process. How wrong she had been. He didn’t want a partner to shine along with him, he had wanted a shadow. Instead of sharing his light with her, he siphoned hers away like a parasite, leaving her empty and hollow and flat. Her only purpose was to offer a contrast to his three-dimensionality and light, wan though she was beginning to see it was. It was this realization that had finally pushed her to do what she should have years earlier.

The worst part was that rather than rebelling and rekindling her own musical style and freedom she had hidden behind her newfound talents as a mimic, gaining popularity as an accompanist who would never rock the boat, never outshine the star. Adam may have left the joy of performing on life support, but Blake had voluntarily pulled the plug, and she hated herself for it. She justified it by telling herself she was too old to change now. Soloists seemed to be appearing at younger and younger ages, and breaking out of a mold was difficult after so many years. So Blake hid in the back, supporting those who sought the spotlight and trying to take pleasure in being on stage at all to take part in the creation of something beautiful.

Then came Yang.

Now it wasn’t enough for her to keep to the shadows. Yang demanded more. She wanted a partner to push back and occupy the spotlight with her, but she would not cede ground willingly. She wanted someone with a presence strong enough to earn that spot. Given that the cellist was damn near a force of nature this seemed like a long shot, and Blake was unsurprised that she had a habit of going through accompanists so frequently. She tried everything she could think of to mollify the woman, working diligently to match her intonation and feeling, but every time she did she was met with contempt and a rapid change to an entirely different style. This went on for days, and on the final night before the performance Yang ended rehearsal early, the look on her face very reminiscent of their first night as she invited Blake out for drinks again.

She was certain that she was going to be fired, concert be damned, as they hadn’t made any progress in their cohesion at all. If anything they sounded worse than they had in their catastrophic first encounter. She waited for the dismissal all night as they sat in the grimy bar drinking an irresponsible number of beers, but it never came. In fact, Yang didn’t mention the concert or music at all. Instead, they just talked. At first, it was nothing important or deep, just idle chitchat. As the night wore on and the beer continued to flow both of their tongues loosened and their conversation swung toward deeper waters. Yang went on for ages about her little sister, with whom she was very close, and Blake told stories about her parents and how they reconnected after a period of estrangement. Yang talked about the death of her mother and the discovery shortly after that her biological mom had left her at birth, and Blake eventually found herself opening up about Adam.

Yang accepted the tale without question, having heard enough whispers in the community to know what he was like, though she did a poor job of hiding her anger at what he had done. “I saw a recording of your last appearance with him you know,” she said softly. Blake sat back heavily in her chair, cradling her mostly empty mug of beer in her hands and reliving that final evening in its murky depths. When she didn’t speak up Yang went on, “That’s actually the real reason I asked for you.”

Blake let out a mirthless laugh at this, “That’s a first. I’ve been passed over several times because of that one show and more often told I was hired despite it. It was an utter disaster.”

“Only for him. You were magnificent.”

“I completely ruined the piece!” Blake shouted, covering her mouth in embarrassment. She looked around to see if people were staring but let her hand drop when she realized no one in the noisy pub had even registered her outburst.

“You asserted yourself, and he couldn’t handle it,” Yang said simply. “It’s not your fault that he only knows how to dominate a stage when there’s no one there to challenge him. I’m not sure what I enjoyed more, listening to the honesty of your pain and righteous fury coming out of the piano or the look on his face when he stormed off like a child after it was over.”

Blake was silent, the thrill of the compliment overshadowed by the dark memory of that evening. “He was beyond furious,” she said, shocked at her own willingness to talk about events she had kept to herself for years, hoping to simply leave them in the past. “He was actually so mad that he left our hotel room before he could fully…express how angry he was with me,” Blake rubbed the side of her face, the bruises more than a decade healed but the memories still fresh and stinging. She took a drink to ground herself and went on, “I realized two things as he slammed the door: I might not survive his return, and if I did whatever love of music still left in me certainly wouldn’t. So I packed my things and left.” Despite her best efforts, she found herself drawn back to that night, staring at the hotel stationary as she scrawled a single word, the only thing she left Adam to mark her passing after years spent making music and, she thought, love together.

_Goodbye._

She dropped the slip of paper in the middle of the expansive bed and left, never looking back or even returning to the mostly empty apartment they shared in New York. She started her life over in LA with nothing but what she had in her suitcase, and never regretted it for a moment.

She started as a hand gently came to rest on her arm, drawing her back to the dark room in which she sat with a woman who could not be more different than the man she been reminiscing about. “Anyway, that’s how I started my freelance career,” she said breezily, taking a drink to hide her face for a moment as she brushed a stray tear from her eye. All that was in the past, she reminded herself, the present was what mattered.

“Why didn’t you go back to solo performance?” Yang prodded gently.

“Who said I wanted to?” Blake deflected.

“Your playing that night,” Yang replied, releasing her light grip and sitting back in her chair. “It cried out for release, for freedom. A deaf person would have known that you ached to be a soloist from the resonance in the floorboards. So why continue with just accompaniment?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being an accompanist,” Blake snapped.

Yang nodded but didn’t respond until her companion seemed to calm slightly. “I never said there was,” she said when she felt the time was right.

“Some of the best pianists I’ve ever met prefer it, even.”

“I know that. I’ve met a lot of incredible ones.”

“So why press me on this?!” Blake asked, gesticulating so wildly that she banged her knuckles against the grainy wood paneling on the wall, pulling back reflexively to ensure she hadn’t done any damage, relaxing when she saw she hadn’t.

“Please don’t injure your hands tonight,” Yang said with a smirk but dropped the expression when she was met with a dark glower. Continuing more earnestly she went on, “I’m not pressing you because I think being a soloist is better, I just think it’s what you want. Who you are. You’re amazing at blending in, going unnoticed, but that’s not who you want to be. At least, I don’t think it is. Am I wrong?”

Wrong.

Blake gritted her teeth, she hated playing wrong notes, but this infuriating woman and the week she had put her through were starting to get to her. The song had started peacefully enough, if somewhat arcane and detached, but as she had tried to match the unexpected tone her efforts were met with anger. Yang didn’t like it when she followed her too closely or mindlessly, and now she was expressing her distaste in ways that were starting to draw out an old familiar fury in Blake. Fighting it was taking more and more effort, however, and in the process, she had struck an errant key. The dissonance of her unintended cord made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, but it also awoke something in her that she thought long dead. If this performance was going to be a failure, it wasn’t going to be because she fell apart under the pressure, it was going to be because she tore it down and set it ablaze.

She struck the chord of the next phrase, perfect in pitch and timing but with a new rush of emotion that drew gasps from the crowd at the sheer audacity of it. Though Yang didn’t shift her head an inch at the sonic attack Blake could swear she saw the corner of her mouth turn up just a hair. She didn’t have time to analyze the change, however, as she found herself beset by a musical counterattack in response to her strike. After a week of brutal musical sparring sessions, she was amazed at how ready she felt, each blow turned aside deftly as she matched the ferocious woman move for move without any need to mimic her. She knew Yang’s style inside and out but refused to copy it, she would rather go out on her shield as the unique and messy musician she was at her core, not as someone’s puppet.

Their struggle, real and authentic and fascinating, if not entirely harmonious, reached a blistering crescendo, leaving the audience and the musicians on stage holding their breath in anticipation when it was brought to a momentary rest.

This silence belongs…

But Blake was in no mood for puzzles or riddles, and when they started in on the next section her rage was far from quenched. Her opponent, however, had changed completely, and she was left flailing briefly to regain her balance and consider her response. Yang had become playful, with a hint of apology, but still claimed the center of the stage proudly. Blake was not yet ready to make nice, however, so rather than follow her lead she instead tried to pull her back into their battle. Yang acknowledged her attempts but each time laughed it off and continued her light and playful dance and all the while they fell further and further out of sync.

The only time their rhythms had seemed to align at all had been on their stumble back to Blake’s hotel the night before. Yang had insisted on walking with her through the frigid streets, and the women had leaned on each other and swayed their way to the lobby doors. Along their journey, something had set one of them to humming, and before they knew it they were performing a drunken, a cappella rendition of the sonata they had been working on all week, giving a free preview to the people they passed who were allowing a wide berth to the clearly intoxicated women singing wildly if oddly beautifully.

“That was the best we’ve sounded all week,” Blake said, giggling at the slight slur of her own words.

Yang nodded sagely, “Totally. We should have just gotten drunk at each rehearsal.”

“I’m not sure that’s the lesson we should take from this,” Blake said, fiddling with a button on her jacket idly. “So…do you want to come up?”

Yang straightened, smiling broadly. “Yes I do,” she said, then took a step back. “But I’m not going to.”

“Oh…” Blake said, blushing. “Wait, what?”

“I know what I want, but it sounds like you aren’t sure, so you’re leaving it up to me. Think about it, and when you know tell me.”

Blake cast her eyes down, considering this, but by the time she had formulated a response she looked up to find the blonde half a block away, waving goodbye as she strolled casually down the street, seemingly unaffected by the cold. Unsure if she should feel mad or relieved Blake turned and fled into the warmth of the hotel lobby, intent on burrowing under every cover her room had to offer and letting sleep deliver her from this confounding night back to a world where things made sense.

But it hadn’t. It had simply deposited her in a brighter version of the same twisted reality, and after a few hours of nursing a hangover, and then a short walk to the symphony hall Blake had found herself back where she had started a week ago. Worse, even, as the soloist was so busy getting her hair and makeup done and doing final preparations of her own that she hardly had time to do more than flash one of her million-watt smiles Blake’s way. If she hadn’t known any better, the accompanist would swear she was avoiding her.

Then the orchestra was done with its portion of the performance and the stage was cleared and the crowd was ushered back to their seats after a brief intermission. While that happened a stagehand had fetched them from the ready room and brought them out into the wings of the stage to listen to their introduction. Then those five words; the only ones the pair had exchanged since the night before.

“This silence belongs to us.”

As they continued their struggle through the middle of the piece the simplest meaning had become plain as day to Blake. The silence of an audience was a precious thing, a gift that dozens or hundreds or thousands of people granted a musician before a performance. It was the canvas on which a performer could paint their work, but unlike the real thing, it was ephemeral and easily destroyed if even a single member of the audience decided to do so. Fine, the silence was theirs, but instead of it being stretched on an easel and covered in a multitude of colors the women had used it as the canvas of a boxing ring and painted it with each other’s blood. No doubt it was still a brilliant spectacle for the audience to behold, but it was far from the joyous expression of art they had expected.

Yang was still doing her best to entice Blake into joining her playful romp but her attempts were lost on the furious pianist. After years of burying the spark of her soul, of allowing herself to be molded and then picking up the clay of her own being and finishing the job of hiding anything that might stand out, anything that might interfere with the real stars that she supported, the genie was out of the bottle. She knew she should respond in kind to the entreaties being thrown her way but each one was batted aside as her fury built, with no end in sight.

Burning tears came unbidden to her eyes and no amount of subtle wiping between notes could clear her vision. Not that it mattered, she could have played the song blindfolded if needed, but the shame of crying on stage was making her erratic. Finally, unable to contain herself any longer she struck a chord so out of place that even Yang reacted, her head snapping around at the crashing sound as the final note of the movement choked to an abrupt halt instead of gently fading.

Blake’s breath caught in her throat and she fell perfectly still save for the cursed tears that continued to stream down her face. She was ruining this performance, and no doubt her own career. For a moment she considered fleeing the stage, the weight of the horrible silence building until it felt like it was going to crush her. Finally, she looked at Yang, waiting to see anger and disappointment flaring from the woman’s eyes. Instead, she was met with a soft look of sadness and concern that felt so at odds with the situation that Blake nearly laughed hysterically. But she was entranced by those eyes, which she was noticing were a lovely shade of lilac, and she waited for some sign, some command telling her what to do.

No command came. If anything, when the blonde took a deep breath and raised her bow it was more of a question. Blake felt like she was being asked to dance, and for a moment the audience and hall dropped away. It was just the two of them, hovering alone in a delicate pool of light as they floated through a sea of darkness. 

And silence.

This silence belongs to us.

Us.

Blake raised her hands, finally accepting the offer that she had first been given right before they stepped on stage, and they began the final movement, the playful rondo. The fight was over, Blake finally realizing that the entire time they had squared off with one another all Yang had really wanted was a dance partner. Closed fists gave way to open and inviting hands and the pair moved around each other with practiced ease, their motions distinct but playing off each other so seamlessly that the result was a beauty beyond which either was capable of alone. The silence that they gamboled and cavorted through was their true stage, and it did indeed belong to both of them. Blake marveled at her own capacity to occupy the spotlight with another, to complement and work off of the beautiful notes of her partner but also to produce many of her own, to shine in her own right. As their dancing became more frenetic in the build towards the climactic finish Blake nearly missed the final twist; a new timbre had entered into Yang’s playing that sounded almost like flirtatiousness. Blake was briefly mortified as she realized that she was mistaken, flirting was being passed over in favor of outright seduction. She had no idea that an instrument could produce such lascivious sounds, though given the rich and resonant tones of a cello emanated from squarely between the splayed legs of the player she was suddenly surprised it didn’t always sound that way.

Forcing herself to keep a straight face she worked to remain coy and aloof, embarrassed at the thought of being part of such a ribald display. Her efforts began to crumble as the piece built towards its conclusion and she found herself fighting a war on two fronts: on one side was Yang’s none-too-subtle musical innuendo and on the other was her body’s involuntary but overwhelmingly positive reaction to it. What finally defeated her was the realization that while overtly sexual the offer was in no way crass or aggressive, it was merely honest and direct and so very sensual. Blake steeled herself as she played hard to get for a few more measures, accepting where things were going but refusing to be led there quietly. Instead, she reversed course all at once, leading them into an erotic collision that nearly threatened to derail the flow of the music but for the masterful hand of the famous cellist. As though they had rehearsed it for years their frenetic coupling built into a rapid crescendo that peaked in a long, beautiful final climax that was far beyond what the score called for but fit the moment perfectly and left both of them gasping for breath as the final, ecstatic chord rang out through the hall. The audience sat, stunned to perfect stillness both by the musical virtuosity and a vague heat in the pit of each of their stomachs that caused many of them varying degrees of confusion and embarrassment. None of that mattered to the two musicians on stage, however, as they sat gazing upon one another in a way common between new lovers. The only thing they were aware of from the outside world was the absolute lack of sound in the large hall.

That silence belonged to the audience. 

The crowd knew this, and once they had regained their senses they filled it with alacrity as they leaped to their feet to try to express some small measure of their awe at bearing witness to greatness. It is a rare thing in life to experience, and a standing ovation, loud and uproarious though it may be, felt like a mere pittance to offer in exchange for the privilege.

Without waiting to be asked Blake stood and took her place alongside Yang, grasping her hand as the two bowed to the riotous cheers of the crowd. For her part the intended star of the show was beaming, which combined with the sweat glistening on her skin made her glow as if on fire, but even as Blake basked in her radiance she realized she was not overshadowed. If anything, they both shone all the brighter for standing beside one another.

After taking the appropriate number of curtain calls Blake led them both to the exit, never once releasing her grip on Yang’s hand. There would be no questions that night; she knew what she wanted, what they both wanted, and now it was merely a matter of crossing the distance between the hall and her hotel room.

What followed was less a consummation than a celebration of something that already was and had been, but it was still every bit as urgent and honest and intimate as what had transpired between them on stage. More so, given they were free of the limits imposed by a score and an audience. As they lay, gasping for breath yet again, Blake finally spoke, voicing the first words shared between them since the beginning of the performance.

“We should do that again,” she said, smiling foolishly.

“I mean I’m kind of tired, but if you give me a minute…” Yang began, a playful smile on her lips.

“Oh my god. I meant _perform_ together,” Blake said, swatting the grinning woman’s shoulder. “Although in a little while I may change my mind…”

The pair laughed giddily, both exhausted to the point that they weren’t sure how they were still conscious, much less entertaining the idea of continuing the night’s activities. Growing thoughtful, Yang rolled on her side and appraised the person she had just shared a stage and a bed with. “I definitely want to play with you again, but I have one condition,” she said.

“Oh?” Blake asked, completely unsure what she could be angling towards.

“For every performance we do together you have to do at least one solo.”

“I…but,” Blake began stammering at the idea. “I can’t do that! Not all of us can get booked at any symphony hall on the planet on a whim!”

“Then play at a coffee shop or a bar when you have to, the bigger shows will come. It’s not like you’re an unknown and I suspect you just gained a little notoriety tonight,” Yang said, not budging.

Blake pouted for a minute, but couldn’t deny the appeal of standing alone in the spotlight for the first time in so many years. “But why? Why is this so important to you?” she finally asked.

“It just is. You have a spark, I saw that in your infamous last performance with Adam, and I definitely saw it tonight. That’s a rare and beautiful thing. I want you to cultivate it, and you can’t do that if you’re only playing with me. Tonight was incredible, and I hope we have a thousand more performances just as amazing, but I don’t want to tuck you into a neat little box in the process. Go, make music your way, and then come back and teach it to me.”

The earnestness in Yang’s tone left no doubt as to whether she meant it, and at first, Blake was unsure what to do with someone so sincerely investing themselves in her happiness and freedom with no apparent ulterior motive. Trying to simply take it at face value she reached out and stroked the sharp jawline of the lovely face so close to hers as she considered the offer. “Here’s my counter,” she finally said, “If I’m performing you have to show up, even if it’s in a coffee shop.”

“Did you just demand that the preeminent cellist on multiple continents come to all of your shows? Do you know who I am?” Yang said in mock indignation.

“I think I have a pretty good idea,” Blake said with a smirk, letting her hand roam to places it had quite recently been very welcome. Yang laughed and leaned in to kiss her, clearly feeling sufficiently rested already, but Blake pulled back with a teasing smile. “Do we have a deal?” she asked.

Yang considered for just a moment before nodding. “Deal,” she said.

The pair lay still for a moment, unsure as to what exactly they had just agreed to but certain it was far bigger than guaranteed attendance at a few shows. Perhaps that should have made them both nervous, making grandiose promises to a stranger after a particularly charged performance, but somehow it felt right. In that room, dark save for the dim glow from the streetlights below, two musicians, two people, found themselves on their own private stage, performers and audience both.

And the silence belonged to them.


End file.
